A Fugitive Hare
by TWB6
Summary: What if Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny weren't cartoon characters?


Hey guys, this is my first ever fanfic!

It's a play off of the "A Wild Hare" short found which can be found on YouTube at: /watch?v=2JMmyHWO424

Or just by searching its name there.

I hope you enjoy! Please R&R!

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**A Fugitive Hare**

"Requesting radio silence while I go after this Rabbit." His call is either obeyed or ignored: no one at the station copied it, and there was no one else on patrol. He turns down the volume on his handheld either way. Can't be too cautious with a chance like this.

Sheriff Fudd is still incredulous: a Rabbit, a real-live Rabbit, had pulled a heist in his sleepy town. That loose-knit gang of bank robbers and jewelry thieves usually played for much higher stakes. It was the fat vaults of Chicago, Indianapolis, or at least Jefferson City that offered the greater challenge and the greater reward. But there is no doubting it. The terrified clerk at the local jeweler's had given a positive ID from a picture he had seen on the news, and a quick glance at the store's security tape was confirmation enough. The perpetrator was, without a doubt, Butler Eugene Gezowitz. Or, as the papers call him, Bugs. Needless to say, bringing such an infamous figure to justice would reflect well upon Fudd's underfunded department. It would likely net him a nice bonus too.

Driving his cruiser at a slow speed, Fudd mused on what he would do with the extra dough while he carefully follows the marks left behind by the get-away vehicle. Thankfully, it had rained on this little-used dirt road earlier in the evening, and the muddy furrows that followed Bugs' escape remained easily visible. "Oh boy, Rabbit tracks," Fudd says to himself, guffawing at his own pun. The odd name of the group stemmed from their usual light-footed evasion of pursuit and their particular tendency to multiple if left unchecked. The decentralized organization of the gang was highly appealing to young anarchists and discontents. Strange then, that this crime seemed so solitary and so clumsy. Fudd is too caught up in images of Malibu and bikinis to consider this though. Soon, a dilapidated shack that seemed to consist of little more than a garage and a front door comes into view. The mud-tracks lead right up to it.

"A Rabbit hole!" Fudd again chortles at his own wit as he quietly idles his cruiser into a relatively dry spot behind a copse of trees. Out of the line of sight of the presumed hideout. Having never raided a criminal den before, Sherriff Fudd wracks his brains, eagerly thinking up some kind of a plan. Then he remembers the necklace. Just outside of the ransacked jewelry store, Fudd had found an expensive-looking gold pendant covered in the reddish mud of the road behind it. "24 carats," the clerk had said when Fudd gingerly lifted it from the ground, "I'm surprised he was careless enough to drop that one. It was the most valuable item on display." Fudd had placed the necklace in the glove-box of his cruiser, thinking it could be useful for fingerprints once the perp was caught. Now, he is imagining a different use for it. Believing the video evidence conclusive enough for an easy conviction, Fudd forms his plan: he would place the necklace on the doorstep, wait until the Bugs exposed himself in an attempt to retrieve it, and, after visually confirming it was in fact his guy, demand the Rabbit's surrender with the imposing muzzle of his shotgun. If Bugs tried anything funny then, Fudd would simply pull the trigger. This Rabbit is worth as much to him dead as he is alive. Cleaning the now-dry flecks of crimson mud from all 24 carats of the pendant, Fudd believes his plan to be fool-proof.

With the gaudy necklace in place before the peeling white paint of the door, Fudd patiently waits from his position behind a tree not far from his cruiser. His shotgun, shouldered, awaiting some sign from his prey. He does not have to wait long. The front door opens to a dark sliver. A white-gloved hand attached to a thin, young arm emerges from the blackness. It begins to probe the doorstep, sensing its contents with a delicate touch. Discovering the pendant, the hand joyfully hefts it twice to test ithe weight, and quickly snaps the necklace back into the darkness. The door slams shut.

Fudd is furious at the sound. His perfect plan, so easily foiled! He can't fire at only a glove! He rushes the door, stopping with both barrels of his gun only an inch or two from its frame. Amazingly, the door cracks open again only a few seconds later. The same gloved hand snakes out and renews exploration. This time, the metal it finds is not gold. After groping the muzzle of the gun for a second or two, the hand flicks it three times, producing hollow sound. Definitely not gold. The hand quickly darts back into safety. Soon, however, it returns into Fudd's view, holding the necklace. Or at least its chain. The bulbous pendant is noticeably absent. The white glove places the chain on the doorstep, submissively pats the top of the muzzle, and then retreats once more. The owner of this glove clearly has a brazenly perverse sense of humor.

Throughout all these hand games, Fudd had grown increasingly enraged. He was being taunted! But still, he could not bring himself to pull the trigger. Anybody could be wearing those white gloves. Just when Fudd believes he is at the acme of his anger, fuming at the recently closed door, it cracks open once more. It is beyond belief. The hand returns, nonchalantly finger-walks over to the chain, grabs it, and dashes back to the relative safety of the shack. The glove must have had second thoughts about the return of this valuable.

Fudd snaps. Forgetting his gun, he begins bashing on the locked door. Fists, feet, even forehead join in an attempt to break down the only barrier between him and the murder of the white-gloved man. But the door to this shack is stronger than seems, and while Fudd is wailing away, someone approaches him from the shack's western corner. He taps Fudd on the shoulder.

"Eh… what's up doc?"

"There's a Rabbit in there, and I'm trying to get him," Fudd replies, a little befuddled from his own fury, and a little blinded by the setting sun.

"…what do you mean, a Rabbit?"

"Rabbits, Rabbits! You know that bank-robbing gang that's been in the news," by shielding his eyes, Fudd could make out a silhouette now, and, of all things, he notices a carrot in the corner of this interloper's mouth. "You know, with the characteristic, purple bandanas," he says.

"Oh, like this?" His accoster points to the faded purple bandana which is tied securely about his head.

"Yea, and with the intricate tattoos all over their backs"

"Like these?" The stranger indicates the waving, interlacing black lines that criss-crossed along his shirtless back.

"Yup, and they flash that odd, elaborate, gang sign before every robbery"

"Oh, like this?" Now he performs a difficult maneuver with his hands, with so many quick gestures and feints that it is difficult to follow.

Still recovering from the blows he inflicted upon his own head, Fudd mutters to himself, "You know, I believe this fella is an R-A-B-B-I-T." Fudd can now make out the figure as a wiry young kid, hardly over 17, who wears a wide, wild grin. An almost exact reproduction of the photos in the paper. Fudd politely comments: "Pardon me, but you know, you look just like a Rabbit."

His new friend leans in. Once close, he begins softly speaking, "Eh… listen Doc, don't spread this around, but uh… confidentially… I AM A RABBIT!"

The last exclamation leaves Sherriff Fudd reeling as Bugs skips off into the nearby copse.

"Uh, last look!" he shouts, allowing Fudd a final glance at his smiling face before disappearing entirely into the thick underbrush. Fudd follows.

Attempting silence, Fudd noisily makes his way through the branches and bramble, trying to spot the Rabbit. Instead, the Rabbit finds him. Fudd loses his vision as a gloved arm is thrown over his eyes. He can feel a sharp stabbing sensation in his lower back. The tip of a knife.

"Guess who?"

The knife point digging deeper, Fudd realizes he has no choice but to play the game: "Nicole Kidman?"

"Nope."

"Keira Knightley?

"Nuh-uh."

"Janet Jackson?"

"Nope," the knife is pressed further into his back.

"Miley Cyrus?"

"No, but you're getting warmer!"

Fudd takes a risk: "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be that screwy Rabbit, would ya?"

"Hmm… could be," the point of the knife is removed, and Fudd quickly turns around to face his foe. But before he can so much as see his enemy, he feels, of all things, the warm press of lips. The insolent Rabbit is kissing him. Surprised, baffled, and more than a bit confused, the straight-laced Fudd stands dumbly while Bugs bounds back in the direction of his hideout. Once he regains his composure, Sheriff Fudd renews his pursuit.

Emerging from the trees, Fudd is shocked to see the Rabbit standing in plain view atop a crate containing all his recently acquired finery.

"Okay, Doc, I've had my fun. To show you I'm a sport, I'll give you a good shot at me. Now you stay there." Bugs, still standing on his hoard, in plain view, demurely puts his fingers in his ears.

Fudd is flabbergasted. The Rabbit is actually going to give him a clean shot! Not wanting to miss this chance, Fudd quickly shoulders his weapon and takes aim. But Fudd has never shot at anything living before. The closest thing he has ever done is to give a few undeserved parking tickets. Could he really kill the boy like this? So coolly?

"WHOA! Hold it!" A shout from Bugs startles the hesitating Fudd. Apparently Bugs wanted to move five paces to his left, off the crate, into the middle of a particularly muddy patch. As he does so, he says aloud, "Okay, let it go."

Fudd again takes aim. Through this interruption, Fudd has lost much of the little nerve he had already managed to gather. Despite his academy training, Fudd closes his eyes. He feels the recoil, and hears a Rabbit writhes on the muddy ground, in theatric death throes. Fudd rushes to his side.

"Ooohh… you got me pal… Ugghh, you got me…," Bugs coughs, "this looks like the end, I can't hold on any longer," another cough, "I'm all washed up… Oh, everything's getting dark… I can't see," grabbing Fudd, "Don't leave me! Getting dark… dark," a wracking cough, "Good-bye pal… good-bye." His body covered in redness, his neck goes limp, and his tongue lolls out. He is dead.

Fudd feels the weight. Guilt overwhelms him, "Bugs, say something! Speak to me!" He begins to shakes the Rabbit's body. Feeling no life, and mistaking the burgundy mud for his victims's blood, Fudd breaks down. In his stress, a childhood speech impediment returns. Fudd exclaims through his tears, "I've killed him! I've killed him! I'm a murwdewer! I'm a Wabbit killwer! Why did I do it? I killed a poowwittle, vewwy young kid!" A sob breaks through, "Why did I do it? Why did I do it!" He retreats entirely into those self-lamenting sobs.

In the next instant, a well placed kick from Bugs' steel-toed boot launches him forward. Attempting to right himself in the muddy ground, an unlit cigar is thrust between his teeth. Utterly defeated, Fudd can only stare as a still-living Bugs dances calmly and elegantly away.

His lamentations turn to frustrated rage. Throwing the cigar down, Fudd roars "Oh! Wabbits! Guns! Wabbit tracks! Carwwots! Wabbits, Wabbits! Wabbits! Wabbits!" He aimlessly stomps away in self-hating fury.

Bugs amusedly observes this withdrawl from the driver's seat of Fudd's abandoned cruiser. A half-chewed carrot is still hanging from the side of his mouth. With his crate of loot in the passenger's seat, necklace on top, Bugs starts the car running with the keys Fudd had carelessly left inside. As he adjusts the radio, Bugs says to no one in particular, "Can you imagine anybody acting like that? You know, I think the poor guy's screwy." A classical flutist comes on. Taking advantage of the straightness of the road, Bugs mimes playing along, his carrot serving as a makeshift woodwind. He makes his escape into the dying sun.

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That's it! I hoped you liked it! I don't think I'll be writing any more stories!


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